


Lesser Avalon

by Shachaai



Series: Vampire AU [6]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-03
Updated: 2011-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-07 16:37:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a century's worth of searching for a corpse, Alfred finally wakes his former guardian from his very long sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lesser Avalon

**Author's Note:**

> This part is set almost a hundred and ten years after everything else (so far) in this AU.
> 
> And yes – this is USUK, set in a largely FrUK ‘verse, but monogamy in the strictest sense of the word doesn’t work with immortality or vampiric relations and whatever it is between people shouldn’t be that easy to define.
> 
> Warning for…uh…actual blood, pointy weapons being in uncomfortable places, technical grave desecration, graveyards and implied mentions of off-screen murders of plot devices masquerading as people.
> 
> Also also, this was largely inspired by a pretty picture of Arthur, but I lost it someplace on tumblr. Er.

Evening at the end of summer in England falls early, but it lingers a lazy while. The shadows press long smudges into the grass and bright wildflowers sprout in the fields and at fence-edges, down the sides of wandering roads that empty for the evening as the people of the countryside come indoors for the night.

Alfred, busy wiping his hands clean in an old church’s doorway, tries not to roll his eyes when he hears a horse whinnying in a field nearby. (It’d only make his headache – finally beginning to lessen up some after hitting fresh air again – worse.) 

Still – better a horse than a cow. Or a _sheep_. It’s the twenty-first century, and the British Isles are still plagued with _sheep_ , woolly bleating things that leap the fences where they shouldn’t and _block the tiny roads._ Man, it’s hard enough to get decent-sized cars down the twisty roads as it is _without_ bleating wannabe clouds doing their suicidal best to get in the way, brazenly meandering about in the noon-time sunshine Alfred can’t set foot in _however_ much sun-block he puts on, completely ignoring the irate honking coming from Alfred’s horn. 

But beyond the hell-spawned sheep –

A churchyard – _grave_ yard – in what feels like the middle of sleepy nowhere, ember-gold under the sinking sun. It’s kinda cool in some ways, crooked stones and weathered angels watching over old bones and older names, pieces worn away by time or all covered with moss and spider-webs. S’not the first time Alfred’s seen it all – first time he’s went _into_ this particular churchyard though, laden down with so many magic charms and trinkets and whatsits that if he hit water he’d sink straight to the bottom like a brick, all of them to get him onto consecrated ground and _into_ the church on-site, smiling Hollywood-white at the priest inside and asking for invitation to come in and pray.

Desecrating the church with bodies really takes some of the _ache_ out of the whole ‘entering the House of God’ thing. Doesn’t stop Alfred from probably pissing God off for getting blood all over sanctuary’s carpets, but then Alfred’s got no intentions of meeting up with the Big Guy anytime soon. (There’s a dark place in his head where the oldest memories lie, behind the black behind Alfred’s closed eyes, soft and dim as he’d lain small and half-asleep in Arthur’s sheltering arms. Angel-arms, Alfred had always drawn Arthur with a halo glowing bright and angel wings, paint smeared by his fingertips across the pages and his clothes and Matthew and Arthur’s waist as he’d been swung up into Arthur’s arms. Sleepy as the sun rose Alfred had nestled near Matthew in Arthur’s gentle, gentle hold, the golden glow around the curtains and the strange iron tang and tea leaves smell that clung to Arthur’s clothes. And he’d fall asleep like that, every time, to Arthur stroking his hair, humming lullabies, and the soft sure whisper that even though God didn’t care anymore Arthur always, always would.

(Arthur had been a little strange, then.))

Bitching about magical charms and copious amounts of sun-block aside (because seriously, the stuff has come some way since it was first invented and it doesn’t stink half as much as it used to and Alfred gets to _soak up some rays_ now (when he’s not in freaking _England_ ) and not fear a slow and painfully peeling death), the churchyard’s kinda a pretty place. It’s got the autumn deal going for it, all red-gold leaves and quaint _Englishness_ and. And it’s not a bad place to be at the end of…of a hundred and almost eight years of searching, conspiring and general magical meddling, a peaceful little corner of nowhere with horses and cows and evil sheep and grass and fields and shit. Some little nowhere village, untouched by time and mostly forgotten about, with apple orchards on cutesy farms and the setting sun splashing gorgeous colours on the gravestones, row after row after row leading to one tranquil little corner all wrapped around with rowan trees and an old, old mausoleum in the middle of it written with an angel’s name.

It’s a beautiful thing, the mausoleum – it’s built for one, and had clearly been white stone once upon a time, carved with angels and roses and other flowers Alfred can’t name. A monument for someone who isn’t interred in it – an old friendship acknowledged, if the letters Alfred had lifted from Francis once upon a time ago are right – because when the old man pisses someone off he _really_ pisses someone off. Rowan and silver on consecrated ground, and the spells on the mausoleum’s door would have incinerated Alfred where he stands had he not decked himself out with protective crap beforehand. A century is a _long_ time to work on stuff; Mattie (who’s still so much _better_ at digging up the magical crap) can attest.

So Alfred pulls on his gloves and wrenches the bars on the mausoleum entrance apart, wrecking the door behind them as well for good measure ( _knock_ _knock_ ). Patience is a virtue he’s never been blessed with, and it’s been so, _so_ long. The mausoleum’s been built to spite him and his kind anyway, so trashing the thing goes some way to dealing with a hundred-year-old grudge against a now-dead man. 

(It’s unfair that mortals can die before Alfred’s had a chance to rip their heads off, and Francis – there are many reasons Alfred doesn’t speak to Francis so much anymore, wherever he is, but his _funny_ way of repaying debts rankles the most, every time.)

There’s a sarcophagus inside – it’s fairly plain for all the fancy stonework outside, but it’s wrapped in so many spells the hairs all along Alfred’s body begin to rise just _looking_ at it, goosebumps up and down his arms even though the sunset leaking into the mausoleum behind him is warm. Sealing and preserving and deterring and _strong,_ the spells are for keeping what’s in eternally _in_ and telling everyone else to keep eternally _out._

It’s a shame that forbidden things are always inherently the most interesting.

Alfred breaks the sarcophagus like he broke the door - but first, he dumps a vial on it that Matthew had given him (preparation before Alfred had left for Europe on what would hopefully be this _one last hunt_ ),watching the liquid seep into the stone and melt through layer after layer of magic until there’s just a damp rock left behind. Braces himself and shoves off the sarcophagus lid in a crash of rubble and rock-dust –

There are roses inside. Heaps and heaps of red-blood roses that look like they were only picked that morning, their scent rippling out in a great wave after a century of building up in an enclosed space. They're sweet and summer-light, something to override the iron that lingers in the air, causes Alfred’s eyes to narrow at the scent of it and his teeth to press sharp against his tongue.

Arthur lies (at last, _at last_ ), as though sleeping, in the middle of the roses, with his eternally messy hair in his eyes and his eyes gently shut, face lax and soft the way it had always been in slumber. Alfred had traced that face a thousand times in his younger days, woken his guardian a thousand times come nightfall by patting his cheek – but there’s no such response now; Arthur’s skin is pliant when Alfred bares one hand to touch it, but cold. The wisest and most vengeful of the hunters and slayers have long since figured that immortality carries its own curse, the strongest curse for the strongest vampires, that you can live and live and _live through anything_ that mortals can’t, however close to death you stray.

And it’ll _hurt._ Always. (Wise lessons from a land of frostbite and clear alcohol that feels like it’ll take the lining off your stomach as you down it – if you wake up and you’re not in pain, you know you’re dead.) 

This is how to hate.

“Hey, old man,” Alfred says, smiles achingly loose and (lonely) lop-sided, and leans with crossed arms on the sarcophagus’ edge to feel the rock edge press through his jacket and shirt. His heart throbs in his chest, all the hapiness and hurt of ages. “Long time no see.”

(Alfred wants to cry. Doesn't.)  


Arthur has lace around his throat and a ribbon to keep it in place, clothes he’d always pulled on half-absently in the evenings when he hadn’t planned to leave his abode. Hands across his stomach and a silver dagger wound all around with a silver-pearl rosary rammed through his heart. Blood has gone to rust on his shirt but below the cloth the red’s still sticky-wet, burning Alfred’s fingertips as he touches it. Holy water or oil on the blade – Alfred rubs his hand on his jeans, and scowls at the thought of wrecking his gloves.

Sunset bleeds in over the floor when Alfred put on his glove again and yanks the dagger out of Arthur’s chest, sheds light around the mausoleum’s dim when Alfred drops it disdainfully to the floor, _the fucking king am I._ It rings, sticky-red droplets smearing the rock, and Alfred kicks it away to a corner with his sneaker, pissed off at the blade and everything it stands for.

He rips into his wrist with his white teeth, fills his mouth with his own blood and raises Arthur’s head up from his bed of dying flowers to push it all past the other’s lips. Arthur’s mouth is as soft as it ever was but lacks the venomous fire that once made it so fun to kiss - his teeth scrape Alfred’s tongue and red stains his mouth like a clown’s smile gone wrong, trickles down the corner of Arthur’s mouth when Alfred pulls back, eyes pricking, and quietly despairs because Arthur _still_ doesn’t move and after a hundred fucking years _it’s just not fair._

And then –

And then Arthur _breathes,_ iron and life (at last, _at last_ ), his chest rise-falls and the wound over his heart begins to heal. 

“ _Arthur,_ ” Alfred says, and grins like a lunatic when sleep-hazed green eyes finally – _finally –_ open to look at him, because _hell yes,_ Alfred’s a genius and it’s paid off and he’s bleeding from his wrist all over Arthur’s clothes but he doesn’t care because Arthur’s clothes are kinda wrecked anyway. So. “Rise and shine, princess.”

“…Alfred,” says Arthur, Arthur says, his voice hoarse from disuse and sounding like cobwebs but still his _voice,_ things only Arthur could say. He looks up, still...still _something_ and not all there, up at sunset and shadows and Alfred’s summer smile, slowly licks his lips to collect the blood smeared across them – and frowns.

_ Ack. _

“Alfred,” Arthur says again, his gaze sharpening as his mind wakes up after an _extremely_ long nap, and Alfred just tries not to gulp too audibly, removing his supporting hands when Arthur struggles and pulls himself up into a sitting position, “what the bloody _hell_ are you wearing?”

Alfred scowls.

[Over eight hundred miles away in Piedmont Francis Bonnefoy stumbles away from the lovely Italian boy and a tray-full of extremely expensive truffles he’d been entertaining himself with for the night, an old headache, a familiar heartbeat and a searing temper awoken from a forgotten sleep suddenly ringing in his ears.

It’s wonderful and it’s terrible and Francis feels very, very sick.

_ Merde. _ ]


End file.
